When Josh picked me up that afternoon, I told him I was having second thoughts.

"There really won't be anything for you to do in Denver," I said, putting my hand on his arm so he would stay calm. "Mulder and I put in long, long hours on field investigations, sometimes around the clock, and you'd just be stuck waiting for me to get back."

Josh turned to look at me, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Let me get this straight," he said, slowly. "You think I should sit here in Washington, D.C., cooling my heels for God knows how long while you go off a thousand miles from here and spend 24/7 with some other guy?"

"Josh, it's my job," I said, helplessly. "You of all people should understand that."

"Oh, I understand, all right," he said. "I gotta admit, Dana, you had me fooled for a while. You almost had me believing your partner didn't go that way."

"Josh, I don't know what you're talking about," I said, startled. "There's nothing personal about any of this, and Mulder's sexual orientation isn't the issue. I have a job to do and I'm going to do it."

"And what about me?" he said, and he was getting really angry. "Don't I have anything to say about this? Or is this just something you and your boyfriend decided for me? I don't like that, Dana. I don't like it one bit."

"Josh, be reasonable," I said. "Mulder and I are federal agents. This is what we do. You knew that when you met me."

"When I met you, I didn't know what was going on between you two," he said, and his tone was getting downright nasty now.

"There's nothing going on," I began, but he interrupted me.

"Don't give me that shit, Dana," he snapped. "I smelled his cologne on you when you got in the car."

"He gave me a hug," I said, helplessly. "It doesn't mean anything. Anyway, I hardly even notice it, he's done it so many times before."

"He'd damn well better not do it again," Josh said, and he was really furious now. "He has no business doing that. I don't know what you're used to, but a real man doesn't put up with another man pawing all over his woman that way."

"I am NOT your woman," I snapped back at him, really angry now. "I am my own woman. And he wasn't pawing at me. It was just a hug, Josh. A completely platonic, between-partners hug. Nothing more."

"I was a cop for 10 years and I never hugged my partner," Josh said, and his voice was rising. His hands had tightened on the steering wheel in a way that was making me very nervous, and he was taking some serious chances in the heavy traffic.

I was frightened, and shocked. I hadn't seen this side of Josh before, and for a minute, I wondered if he'd been drinking again; if so, I needed to calm him down, fast, and get in the driver's seat. We were in rush-hour traffic in Washington, D.C., and that's dangerous, requiring full concentration from any driver.

"Josh, you probably never hugged your partner because your partner wasn't a woman," I said, seeking a conciliatory tone.

"Oh, so now you're admitting that it was a sexual thing?" he said, looking at me triumphantly.

"I'm not admitting anything," I said, bewildered. I couldn't keep up with his logic, and I didn't quite know why. "I just said your partner was probably not a woman, so you didn't hug him."

"Yeah, but your queer-boy partner supposedly wouldn't care, would he?" Josh said. "He's just one of the girls, right? Go on, admit it, Dana; you're still hoping he'll fuck you some day. That's what you really want, isn't it."

This was making me crazy; the argument was leaping from one topic to another with lightning speed. Just as soon as I'd make my point on one subject, we'd suddenly shift to another.

And what was that about "admitting" it? That seemed to imply that we both knew the truth was something other than what I'd been saying, which of course, wasn't the case at all.

I was sure Josh knew it; he was just angry.

"Josh," I began, very carefully. "I think maybe we should just go home, try to decompress a little before we finish this discussion. I'm just making you angry right now, and we should drop it for a while, okay?"

"Oh, no, lady," he said, shaking his head. "You're not going to get away from it that easily. You may have been brought up to pretend and cover up and make like everything's all right, but in my family, we're honest about our feelings and we say what we think. I'm not going to lie and say it's all right when it's not."

"It's nothing to do with that," I said, and I was getting angrier by the minute. "And there's no need to start bringing other people into this. This is a discussion of whether it's a good idea for you to go with me to Denver, and the further this argument goes, the more I know I was right and that you should stay home."

Suddenly the brakes were screeching, the tires were squealing and the car was lurching as Josh pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store ...

... and slapped me right in the face.

Hard.

Stars burst out in a red sky as my vision went blank, and I tasted the bitter, coppery tang of blood in my mouth, while the unheard noise of the blow reverberated through my skull, deafening me.

I was absolutely stunned by what was happening; too stunned to do anything about it.

Anyway, what was I going to do? Pull my gun and shoot him?

"Josh, don't," I said, dazed, but my plea only seemed to enrage him. He drew back his fist and punched me in the stomach; the epigastric abdominal region, to be precise, but at that moment the proper terminology wasn't my top concern.

I nearly doubled over; the only thing that held me up was the safety belt. For a moment, I couldn't breathe; he'd literally knocked the breath out of my lungs.

And then he hit me again, even harder.

"Josh, please, don't," I said, gasping for breath, but I heard the abject pleading in my voice. "Please ... please stop. Don't hit me again."

And he stopped. He just sat there, glaring at me, but there was a gleam in his eyes of -- was it triumph?

I didn't care. I undid my seat belt and reached for the door handle, blindly.

"Where do you think you're going?" he said, and his voice was icy calm.

"Anywhere," I said, crying openly now. I thought I might vomit. "Anywhere. Away from you."

"Like hell," he said, and he floored the gas, nearly crashing into a Lincoln Continental that was pulling into the parking lot. I closed the door just in time to keep from being thrown to the pavement.

"We're going home," Josh said, still in that nasty, bullying tone. "And you're not going to Denver or anywhere else, either."

"I have to go," I said, and I coughed. Drops of blood flew out and landed on the windshield. I put my hand up to my face; my nose was bleeding.

My God -- he'd really hurt me. Josh, my lover, had actually hurt me. I couldn't make sense of it; I was too stunned.

"Josh, for Christ's sake, you've bloodied my nose!" I said, crying even harder. "Why did you do that? Why?"

I was sobbing, shuddering from the shock of the attack and even more from the harsh, hateful words he'd said to me.

Josh looked at me, briefly, and there was nothing but contempt on his face.

"You were asking for it, Dana," he said, shortly. He didn't speak to me again.

~~~~~~~~

When we got home, I went straight into the bathroom to clean up and assess the damage -- and to get my toothbrush.

No way was I staying here with him, not after this. I'd always told myself no man would ever hit me twice.

But when I looked in the mirror, I knew I couldn't go anywhere -- not yet. My face was puffy and red where he'd hit me, and I could see that I would have a black eye by tomorrow. Besides, my stomach muscles were so sore and painful, I could hardly walk.

No. I would have to stay here until the bruises faded, which meant I had to come up with a plausible reason why I couldn't go to Denver tomorrow with Mulder.

Slowly, reluctantly, I went out to the kitchen. Josh was sitting on the couch, a beer in his hand, watching television.

He didn't even look at me.

I took a couple of Tylenol III, which I keep around for my rare migraines, and tiptoed back to the bedroom.

In a short while, the drugs took effect, and I slept. At some point, Josh came and got into the bed next to me, just as though nothing had happened.